


Heart Rate

by CivilBores



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 5 Things, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sickfic, ah yes the iconic closet scenes, almost, beverly is my main man, everyone x everyone..... but platonically, first kisses are cute, heart monitors, just a little, mostly fluff tho, pennywise can go die, super fluff, super pure trust me, thats obvious though, theres a little bit in there, this started as a chara study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 08:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CivilBores/pseuds/CivilBores
Summary: “What’s there to be afraid of?” Richie’s moving closer. His face is so close now that Eddie can feel his breath on his face. He’s going practically cross-eyed looking at him. “Tell me, Eds. Are you afraid of me?”Eddie gives a shrug, trying and failing to look nonchalant. Too close, he thinks, this is too close, but for some reason he can’t find it in him to pull away. “I don’t know,” he says again. He decides to play along with the gag, and adds, “Should I be?”Richie grins his devilish, crooked smile. “Yes,” he says finally, decidedly. “You should be very, very afraid.”-Featuring haunted houses, tight spaces, a sick (almost) boyfriend, destructive lies, and first kisses; all these things scare Eddie Kaspbrak a lot more than they should.





	Heart Rate

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first and probably last IT fic so drink it up while ya can boys !! have fun reading :)

1.

 

The first time it goes off- or, more accurately, the first time Richie Tozier hears it go off, is when they’re standing in front of the Neibolt House.

 

The others are standing with their bikes a few feet away. The beeping is quiet- luckily, it’s mostly drowned out by the sound of chirping birds and trees rustling in the wind.

 

Mostly. It’s still there- faint, but definitely there. Eddie’s first mistake is not turning it off immediately.

 

“What’s that noise? It’s fucking annoying.”

 

Richie’s standing at his left, wheeling his bike around. And of course, he’s not with the others in front, because if there’s one goddamn thing Eddie knows, it’s that even with how much they say they hate each other it’s not really enough to keep them apart and it never will be. As irritating as _that_ is.

 

Eddie instantly shoves his wrist into his pocket. “Nothing,” he lies easily.

 

Unfortunately, the monitor doesn’t stop beeping and is hardly muffled by the cloth of Eddie’s shorts. Richie quiets for a moment, like he’s listening to the sound more closely, trying to place it.

 

“Sounds like your mom’s screams in bed,” Richie says finally.

 

“Fuck off,” Eddie growls.

 

“You’re so cute when you say ‘fuck’, you know? It’s kinda like a preschooler cursing for the first time just to try it out.”

 

“Preschoolers don’t curse.”

 

“Speak for yourself.”

 

“You cursed as a pre-” Eddie stops himself. He’s not really surprised by that. Richie Tozier was probably swearing like a sailor the instant he came out of the womb.

 

Richie’s suddenly leaning over his bike, way too close for comfort- Eddie blinks and subconsciously stumbles back. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.

 

“Oh my god,” is what Richie says. “Is that a fucking heart monitor?”

 

Eddie’s face flushes and he looks down, where his wrist is left exposed- he must’ve dropped it from his pocket without realizing. He looks back at Richie, at his huge, dark owl eyes peering at him disbelievingly through those thick lenses-

 

“Yes,” Eddie says miserably, and Richie instantly claps a hand over his own mouth, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

 

Eddie can only imagine what kind of obscenities and insults Richie’s holding back through his pale, thin fingers. The taller boy’s eyes are wide as saucers. His muffled laugh sounds more like a wheeze than anything, all choked off and raspy.

 

 _You fucked up, Kaspbrak,_ Eddie thinks to himself as he watches Richie keel over in front of him, starting to giggle. Why didn’t he just lie or something…?

 

No, he knows the answer to that one. Richie can always tell when he’s lying, and that would’ve made it about ten times more embarrassing.

 

“How does that work?” Richie is saying between breaths. “It goes off when your heart rate goes up?”

 

“Yeah-”

 

“And what makes it go up?”

 

Without thinking, Eddie says, “It goes up when I’m scared.”

 

And he instantly regrets it.

 

“Oh, Eds,” Richie says, his voice dripping with fake concern. “Are you _scared_ right now?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, but it’s too late. A devious grin has crept onto Richie’s face.

 

“Here, it’s okay, Eds,” Richie says. “I’ll hold your hand if you want.”

 

“Don’t call me Eds!” Eddie snaps. “And if you fucking touch me I’ll snap your neck.”

 

Richie’s head drops down and he laughs. He reaches out and Eddie tries to duck away, but not in time to escape Richie’s fingers pinching at his cheek. “Cute, cute, _cute_ ,” Richie coos, and Eddie squawks and yanks himself out of Richie’s grasp.

 

“Stop it, Richie, I _hate_ it when you do that!”

 

Eddie’s face begins to burn- he forces his eyes away and stares distantly at the others. He focuses his gaze on Bill so that he doesn’t have to look at Richie, but somehow he can’t rid him from his mind.

 

“Don’t worry,” Richie’s voice says. Eddie doesn’t turn back around to look at him. “We’re all a little scared, okay, Eds? I mean, it’s a fucking crackhead house.”

 

It’s actually comforting to hear coming from the idiot. Knowing Richie’s scared too makes Eddie feel less vulnerable, less weak.

 

Eddie stares at his shoes. The Neibolt house is blurred, nearly out of his line of vision. Richie fills up the other side of his peripheral with his huge rimmed glasses.

 

“Don’t call me Eds,” he mumbles.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


2.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

 

Eddie’s yanked up a bit too roughly by his collar. He stumbles to his feet and falls into step behind Richie, sprinting after him.

 

“Where are they?!” Eddie shouts after Richie’s curly, bobbing head.

 

“No farther than they were before,” Richie says, “thanks to you, idiot!”

 

Eddie doesn’t know how Richie manages whole phrases without being out of breath. This will be the way Richie dies- loud and obnoxious all the way to his fucking grave.

 

Right now, it’s both their graves if Henry Bowers catches up to them.

 

“Bill and Stan,” Eddie manages between breaths. “Where- where’re they-”

 

“They took off already, dumbass!” Richie casts a glance over his shoulder, but it’s not directed at Eddie- his gaze goes past, all the way down the long hallway, searching for Henry. “You know, I could be off hee-hawing with them too if I didn’t stop for you!”

 

“I didn’t ask you to stop for me!”

 

Richie suddenly brakes left. Eddie nearly falls over again, keeling over from the sharp turn, but Richie’s hand flashes out and snatches Eddie’s sleeve, wheeling him behind.

 

“What the fuck, Trashmouth-”

 

“Shut up!” Richie yanks Eddie roughly next to him.

 

A door closes before them.

 

Eddie draws in a sharp breath when he comes face to face with the wooden door- even in the dark he can make it out. And it’s so, so dark. He’s only faintly aware of Richie’s heavy breathing behind him.

 

“Richie,” Eddie tries to say, but his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. He tries again, louder: “Richie, I-”

 

“Shut _up,_ oh my god,” Richie hisses at him. “You’re going to get us fucking murdered.”

 

Eddie forces his eyes back to the door. Richie’s wedged uncomfortably beside him- everything’s dark and too close. Eddie can’t move a muscle. He can feel Richie on his right, the handle of a janitor’s mop on his left; they’re all packed in like sardines and it feels like hell.

 

And, oh no. Oh, god no. Eddie’s breaths are starting to come fast and shallow.

 

He places a shaky hand on the door in front of him and tries to even out his breathing to no avail. It’s like his lungs are being filtered- each breath he takes is more of a wheeze, and it _hurts._ They get caught halfway through his lungs and linger painfully.

 

The air is almost hot. It’s hot and it’s sticky and it’s hard to take in. Sweat is beading on the back of Eddie’s neck and he’s not sure if it’s because Richie and that damn mop are way too close for comfort, because there’s no space in here whatsoever, or because he’s panicking, because he can’t breathe and he’s _panicking_ -

 

It’s too quiet in here. Why is Richie _quiet_ the one time Eddie doesn’t want him to be?

 

Eddie’s distantly aware of a clattering sound on his left- the mop knocking over- and did he do that? Or did Richie do that? He can’t see straight, can’t think straight.

 

“Jesus fuck, Eds,” Richie’s whispering, except his voice is hardly a whisper anymore. _Ha,_ Eddie thinks, _now_ you’re _the one who’ll get us both fucking murdered._ “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Asthma,” Eddie manages.

 

“I know that, but _why?”_

 

Eddie purses his lips, refusing to answer.

 

And then his wristlet starts beeping.

 

“You’re scared,” Richie says, more to himself than to Eddie, and Eddie could clock him right now, really.

 

There’s no point in trying to calm himself down at this point. Eddie reaches for his hip, where he carries his inhaler, and his hand freezes, going rigid.

 

He stops. He feels around a bit more- “Ew, god, Eddie, can’t you jerk off somewhere else?!” Richie’s saying, but Eddie ignores him- but he grasps at nothing, finds nothing.

 

“My fanny pack,” Eddie finally says. His wristlet is beeping even faster now. His voice is hoarse, barely audible. “My fanny- I don’t have my-”

 

“Do not finish that fucking sentence.” Richie’s fumbling through his backpack. “If I hear the word ‘fanny’ one more time, I’ll fucking kill myself.”

 

“Richie!” Eddie practically screeches.

 

“Oh my god, shut up! Are you trying to waste every single breath in your tiny body?”

 

“I-” Eddie gasps, choking on his breath (ironically enough). “I can’t breathe, Richie- oh my god, I’m gonna fucking die, I-“

 

And then something hard and plastic is being shoved into his mouth. He gawks and scrambles around in protest, but Richie’s hand clamps over the top of his head and forces his face still.

 

Oxygen puffs into his mouth. It’s sweet and relieving and instantly eliminates all of the crushing weight that had been on his lungs just seconds before. Eddie sighs, slumping over.

 

“Yup, deep breaths, okay, buddy?” Richie’s saying from behind him. Then, to himself: “I can’t believe I got stuck with the fucking asthmatic. I could be with Bill and Stan right now, having sexy times.”

 

“They’re not having…” Eddie takes a deep breath. He can practically feel Richie rolling his eyes behind him. “Sexy times,” he finishes.

 

“Then I could be having them with your mom instead.”

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Eddie pants heavily, glancing at the mop that’s now lying on the floor. “How- how did you…?”

 

“I carry your spare,” Richie explains, holding up the familiar blue inhaler. “What was that?”

 

Eddie bites his lips. He doesn’t want to tell, not really, but he owes Richie an explanation after the freak show he just put on. “I’m… claustrophobic,” Eddie explains grudgingly.

 

“You’re everything-phobic, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Richie tells him. “And fucking lucky I was here. If you were stuck here with Bill, he’d probably just join you in your panic session. And then I could go off with Stan and blow him in Bill’s place.”

 

“You’re disgusting.”

 

“What, like you wouldn’t blow Stan?

 

“Shut _up,”_ Eddie says, and surprisingly enough, he does.

 

Eddie stares at the crack of light filtering through the closet door. The only sounds now are both their quiet breaths- the beeping is quieter now, much quieter, and it’s fallen to just a dull undertone of what it had been just seconds before. Absentmindedly, Eddie reaches down and awkwardly shuts off the heart monitor and lets his hand drop to his side.  

 

Something familiarly plastic touches his open palm.

 

Eddie doesn’t look down. He curls his fingers around his inhaler, accepting it silently from Richie.

 

Their fingers touch just barely- it’s so light, so fast Eddie thinks he had to have imagined it- but he pretends not to notice anyway. And then Richie’s touch is gone just as fast and just as gentle as it came.

 

Something inside Eddie feels… funny. Feels off. It’s almost like he wants Richie’s hand back, and for a moment he feels his heart ache for Richie’s touch.

 

Almost.

 

Eddie shoves the inhaler into his pocket sharply and he doesn’t look back.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


3.

 

“Blade Runner,” says Beverly.

 

“What?!” Mike’s mouth drops open. “Are you uncultured? Breakfast Club.”

 

“Blade Runner,” Stan argues. Bev’s eyes light up and she grins wide, raising her hand. Stan eagerly smacks palms with her.

 

“What the fuck?” Mike demands.

 

“Breakfast Club,” Eddie agrees, glancing at Mike, who pumps his fists in triumph. “It’s more heartfelt.”

 

“Jesus fuck,” Bev and Stan both say, simultaneously. Eddie shoots them a glare.

 

“Bill?” Stan says hopefully.

 

Bill visibly stiffens under Stan’s gaze, and the other Losers all suck in breaths, rolling their eyes. “Um,” Bill says. “I’d p-pre-prefer, um, B-Blade Run-Runner.”

 

Stan gives Mike and Eddie his famous smirk, and Eddie resists the urge to smack it off his face. “Not fair,” Mike groans, “you can’t use sex appeal.”

 

“I didn’t use _anything!”_ Stan protests. Mike throws his hand in Stan’s face, shoving him away.

 

Bev turns her gaze to Ben, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that can only be purposeful. Eddie wants to throw up. Apparently, it works, though, because Ben’s face turns an obscene shade of red.

 

“What do you want?” Bev says, her voice dropping low. Eddie slaps his hand to his forehead- Bill pats his shoulder comfortingly.

 

“Um,” Ben says eloquently. His eyes dart around, like he’s seeking help- he’s met with the tired, annoyed glances of the other losers, none of them near willing to offer any. Finally, he speaks again, in a quiet, meek voice: “Breakfast Club.”

 

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “Whoa, what?”

 

“What?” Mike and Stan echo.

 

Bev’s jaw drops. She shoves Ben’s shoulder. “Traitor!” she accuses.

 

“I’m sorry!” Ben cries, covering his eyes with his palms.

 

“So, what, then?” Stan says. “It’s a tie?”

 

“Richie,” Mike says.

 

All their heads turn. Eddie had nearly forgotten Richie was here- he’d been quiet the whole day. His curly head slowly bobs upward, and that’s the first sign Eddie gets that something is very, very wrong.

 

Richie’s always alert, always sharp and on edge. He’s loud and obnoxious and makes himself known.

 

He’s never, ever quiet.

 

His eyes blink slowly, fixing on their faces. Eddie stares at Richie’s face, scanning his features up and down. There are deep, heavy circles under his eyes, and his face looks dead and tired.

 

Eddie’s lips pull into a tight frown. He locks eyes with Richie for a brief moment and furrows his brow, as if to say, _dude, what the fuck’s wrong with you?_

 

Richie bristles for just a moment, before standing tall with his usual arrogant stature. His infamous shit-eating grin makes its way to his face. “Blade Runner,” he says defiantly, and looks Eddie right in the eye. It makes Eddie’s head swarm and it feels _weird_. Richie’s gaze returns to the others. “It’s much more interesting. Plus, I just can’t stand Molly Ringwald.”

 

At this, he gives a sharp, pointed look at Bev.

 

“Oh, fuck off, Tozier,” Bev says, rolling her eyes.

 

“Okay, then,” Ben says. “Bill’s place, right?”

 

“Y-Yeah,” Bill confirms.

 

“Race you there,” Stan says to nobody in particular, mounting his bike. Mike reaches over and shoves Stan hard, sending him off balance before pedaling off fast towards Bill’s house. Stan shouts at him and the Losers take off, all screaming curses at Mike.

 

Eddie hangs back for just a moment. Richie hasn’t even gotten on his bike yet- he’s standing with his head down, his hands gripping his bike handles so tight that his knuckles are white.

 

“Richie,” Eddie says quietly. “Richie. Hey.”

 

“Shut up, Eds,” Richie mutters.

 

“Are you okay? You- you look sick, or something.”

 

“Why do you care? Scared I’m contagious?”

 

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. His brow furrows, and he stares darkly at his best friend.

 

“Whatever,” Eddie says finally. “See if I fucking care, it’s your funeral.”

 

“I’m not sick,” Richie says. “Okay? Probably just… caught a bug from your mom.”

 

That’s sign number two. As irritating as it is, Richie’s jokes never fall short. That one was definitely a stretch, and it makes Eddie’s stomach hurt a little with distant panic- the feeling of nausea you get before disaster, the premonition before the storm.

 

Eddie ignores him and mounts his bike. “Let’s go to Bill’s,” he mumbles, trying and failing to hide the concern that creeps into his voice. He doesn’t dare look at Richie because he knows Richie will be able to read the worry written all over his face.

 

Eddie starts off first, hearing Richie’s bike crunching down the road behind him. He keeps his gaze fixed forward as they ride, staring at the patches of road that approach rapidly and disappear under his wheels.

 

The strangest thing about it all is that Richie’s _still_ silent. When they go biking, Richie’s always yammering away, practicing his accents and impressions. Eddie remembers that one time when Richie was biking behind him, doing his best Eddie impression- “ _My mom’s gonna have a fucking aneurysm if she hears about this! You’re all disgusting, I tell you!_ ”- which prompted Eddie to stop dead in the middle of the road, causing Richie to veer into the sidewalk.

 

Now, it’s dead silent- just the sound of Richie’s wheels on the road- and then, even that stops.

 

There’s a loud crash, a rattle, and a thud. Eddie’s bike screeches to a halt and his foot flies out frantically to stop himself from lurching forward.

 

He turns back, eyes wide- Richie’s lying in the middle of the road, curled up in a fetal position, his bike lying a few feet away. Eddie gets off his bike so fast that his leg catches on the seat and it falls into him. He abandons it, leaving it to crash on its side on the road, and dashes towards Richie’s limp form on the ground.

 

“Richie-!” Eddie’s on his knees in an instant, desperately shaking Richie’s shoulder. “What the fuck, Richie, get up!”

 

Richie’s unresponsive. Eddie turns him over- his eyes are drawn shut, his glasses askew. He lays the back of his palm against Richie’s forehead and instantly draws back; his skin is burning hot.

 

“Fuck,” Eddie says loudly. “Oh, god, fuck, fuck, fuck- wake _up,_ Trashmouth-”

 

And then, as if the situation couldn’t get any worse, Eddie’s heart monitor begins to beep.

 

Eddie’s eyes begin to sting. This is so, so annoying. So annoying it makes his stomach hurt and his heart ache. Why does he always end up stuck in these situations? Crouching over his collapsed best friend in the middle of the road, while everyone else is off movie-watching at Bill’s- a sound that sounds dangerously close to a sob escapes Eddie’s mouth. Fuck all of this. The sound of his heart monitor beeping is stressing him out even more; it serves as a confirmation that Eddie is utterly and royally fucked.

 

Richie begins to stir a little at the sound, his face pulling into a tight grimace. Eddie realizes how faint he feels all of a sudden, staring down at Richie’s eyes as they open wide, framed by thick black lashes. “Turn that damn thing off,” Richie mumbles.

 

“Fuck you!” Eddie screeches, but his voice wavers a little at the end, giving away his relief. He pretends to brush loose strands of his hair away from his face in the process of wiping his tears of fear away. “I thought you fucking _died_ or something, you idiot!”

 

“I _wish_ I was dead,” Richie says. “Wouldn’t have to listen to your fucking heart monitor anymore- fuck.”

 

He grimaces, raising a hand to his head. Eddie realizes only now that Richie’s practically laying in his lap, and he awkwardly scrambles away so that they’re sitting a good few feet apart. Richie sits up, his glasses askew.

 

“You are sick,” Eddie says breathlessly, staring at his best friend. “You lied to me.”

 

Eddie’s heart monitor is still going off ballistically.

 

“My head hurts like a bitch,” Richie complains. “If you don’t turn that thing off I will literally rip your entire fucking hand off-“

 

Eddie presses the button on the side. The beeping promptly stops and Richie visibly relaxes.

 

“You shouldn’t go to Bill’s,” Eddie says finally, still peering at Richie’s pale face.

 

“Aw, why?” Richie says. He looks up at Eddie, his large eyes blinking in feigned innocence. “You don’t think I’m in any condition to bike the rest of the way there, dah-ling?”

 

“Was that British?”

 

“You’re worried about li’l ol’ me,” Richie continues without missing a beat in his awful British accent, “and you don’t want me to go to Big Billy’s? Think I’m too poxy for it? I’ll only make myself worse, is that it, mate?”

 

“No,” Eddie lies breezily. “You’re probably contagious. I don’t want you to throw a fucking measles party in his house, that’s what.”

 

Richie’s blinding smile doesn’t falter. “You can’t lie to me, Eds,” he sings, abandoning the fake accent. “The heart monitor doesn’t lie. You were _scared_ . You really _do_ care about me, don’t you?”

 

Eddie’s face flushes. His eyes dart away; he stands up fast and picks up his bike. “Shut up and go home.”

 

~

 

When Eddie walks in through Bill’s garage door, the other Losers are already sitting on the couch. Blade Runner is playing on the projector screen.

 

Their heads all turn toward him in silence. They watch intensely as he steps forward and gingerly plops down beside Bill.

 

“What?” he says to them, reaching across Bill’s lap to grab a handful of Stan’s popcorn. Stan makes an offended noise and yanks his bowl back, but not before Eddie shoves the popcorn into his mouth and chomps.

 

Bev throws a popcorn kernel at his head from across the couch. “Why’d you take so long?” she says. “And where’s Richie?”

 

Eddie gives a little shrug, turning his gaze to the screen. “He went home,” he says simply.

 

The other Losers are exchanging glances instantaneously. Eddie pretends not to notice.

 

 _“There’s only two of us now,”_ Roy is saying on the screen.

 

 _“Then we’re stupid,”_ Pris says, _“and we’ll die.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


4. 

 

“Eddie!” Ben exclaims.

 

“Why are you here?” Stan asks him. “I thought your mom didn’t want you to hang out with us anymore.”

 

“Is your arm okay?” Bev asks.

 

“Where’s your mom?” Mike says.

 

“Is e-ev-everything a-alright?” Bill stammers.

 

“Oh my fucking god,” Richie says with a gesture towards Eddie’s cast, “did you write that?”

 

“My mom can go fuck herself,” Eddie says bitterly. It sounds way too harsh, even to his own ears, but the rage boiling in his veins hasn’t died down since he threw his pills away and he can’t find the means to care.

 

“I’ll do it for her,” Richie offers. Eddie shoots him a pointed look.

 

“W-What h-h-happened, Eddie?” Bill says, his eyes glazed over with concern.

 

“Nothing,” Eddie lies. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just… go somewhere, or do something.”

 

“We were gonna go to the arcade,” Stan says. “You wanna come?”

 

Eddie nods gratefully. He starts to swing his leg over his bike when Richie speaks again in an awful British accent: “All you good fellows, go on ahead! I’ll stay back with our dear Eds for a moment.”

 

“No!” Eddie exclaims, a little too loudly.

 

“Yes,” Richie says forcefully, locking eyes with Eddie for a long second. He turns back to the others, who’re all looking at the two of them skeptically- “Run along, now, chaps!” Richie says with an eerie edge to his voice. The others give a few last glances at Eddie before getting on their bikes.

 

“Don’t be too long, okay?” Bev says. “We wanna get there while the ice cream truck’s still there.”

 

With that, the other Losers disappear with the sound of bike wheels rolling down the road. Eddie instantly whirls on his heel and turns on Richie.

 

“What the fuck, dude?!” Eddie demands. “I’m not in the mood to fuck around with you right now-”

 

“What’s up with you?” Richie says, ignoring him.

 

“Nothing!”

 

“I’m serious.” Richie’s lips are pulled into a tight, thin line. “Eds, you can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?”

 

“Don’t fucking call me Eds!” Eddie snaps.

 

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Well,” he says. “That’s no way to treat the guy who snapped your fucking arm back into place.”

 

“I don’t care,” Eddie says. “I’m leaving.”

 

“Your mom know you’re out here, with us?”

 

Eddie looks back. Richie’s squinting at him through his Coke-bottle lenses, searching his face.

 

“I don’t know,” Eddie says honestly. “I don’t really care, either.”

 

“She’s been babying you,” Richie says.

 

“She’s been _bullshitting_ me,” Eddie says, and all of a sudden it’s like his blood is on fire again. “Did you know that, Richie? She’s been _lying_ to me for- for who knows how long! My ‘sickness’ she’s always on about- it’s a big fucking hoax, did you know that? I’ve been fine this whole time. I’ve been taking fucking _gazebos_. I- holy fuck, how do I even know I have asthma or not- my whole life is one big, fucking lie and I-”

 

Eddie’s rambling is cut short by a faint beep. His eyes flick down to his wrist.

 

“Fuck it,” he wheezes.

 

“Eddie,” Richie says patiently. He reaches out for Eddie’s hand- Eddie yanks it away fast, glaring.

 

“What?!” Eddie demands.

 

Richie looks up. He locks eyes with Eddie and suddenly Eddie feels like he’ll keel over and faint at any second.

 

“Why are you scared?” Richie asks softly.

 

Eddie realizes his legs are shaking. He grips onto his bike handles tight in a pathetic attempt to steady himself. His eyes are stinging- he reaches up and furiously wipes at his tears, not caring that Richie’s here and Richie’s watching him the whole time.

 

“I don’t know,” Eddie says miserably. “I've been kept in the dark for so long now. I don’t-  I don’t know what’s real or not anymore.”

 

Eddie stares at his shoes. A tear drops onto his sneaker and he angrily wipes his eyes with his good arm again. He’s only vaguely aware of Richie staring at him, but he doesn’t dare look up, he doesn’t want to have to look at him.

 

“I do,” Richie says.

 

He moves forward carefully and slowly places his hands over Eddie’s. “Your name’s Eddie Kaspbrak. It’s a weird fucking name, but it’s yours.”

 

Eddie stares down at Richie’s pale hands over his own. He takes a shaky breath, steadying himself. Richie’s touch is warm and soft. He eases Eddie’s fingers off of his bike handles slowly.

 

“We’ve known each other since we were six.” Eddie’s fingers are shaking as Richie finally pries them from the handles- his bike clatters to the floor but he doesn’t care, he hardly hears a sound. “You’re my best friend, Eds, and you hate it when I call you that.”

 

Eddie doesn’t look at Richie, but he feels the warmth of Richie’s hand around his face and he can imagine the gentle look Richie must be wearing.

 

Richie’s hands are laced through Eddie’s. Eddie stares at them and thinks how weird it is that their hands fit so perfectly together, leaving just enough space for their fingers to entwine.

 

“This,” Richie says, “this is real.”

 

Eddie takes a breath.

 

The beeping stops.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


5.

 

This is considerably the worst night of Eddie Kaspbrak’s pathetic thirteen-year-old life.

 

It all started at Bill’s house- because every bad decision happens in Bill’s house- the Losers were all sitting cross legged on Bill’s bedroom floor in a loose ring.

 

Beverly Marsh brought the fucking bottle.

 

“It’ll be fun,” she promised. “How many of you have played before?”

 

“Spin the Bottle?” Mike had said innocently. “I’ve played.”

 

“No, you haven’t,” Stan said, rolling his eyes.

 

“Have too.”

 

“Nice try, Hanlon,” Bev said. “But I didn’t mean Spin the Bottle. Any other wild guesses?”

 

Richie raised his hand. Eddie was rolling his eyes before Richie even cracked the joke: “Spin the Bottle but with fucking instead of kissing?”

 

“You’re disgusting,” Eddie growled from across the circle.

 

“That’s funny, your mom didn’t seem to think so last time I played it with her-”

 

“Shut up, you two,” Ben said sharply.

 

“Thank you,” Bev sighed. “And it’s Seven Minutes in Heaven, losers.”

 

“That’s what I said!” Richie yelled.

 

“K-Keep it d-d-down,” Bill said. “Y-You’ll w-wa-wake up m-my parents.”

 

“You’ve played before, Tozier?” Bev asked.

 

“Yeah, a few times. Once or twice with Eddie’s mother-”

 

“Hey!” Eddie shouted.

 

“Couple of times with Betty Ripsom-”

 

“That’s _so_ messed up,” Stan muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

 

“Have you, Bev?” Ben asked.

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I have not.” Following the others’ skeptical looks, Bev amended, “Only twice.”

 

“If it lands on you,” Mike said, “do you have to…?”

 

“Fuck?” Richie supplied for him.

 

“No,” Bev said. “You don’t have to do anything, really. All you have to do is go into a closet for seven minutes. That’s all. It’s your choice what you _do_ during those seven minutes.”

 

“No s-sex,” Bill said. “Please. M-My parents- th-they’ll freak if they s-see the- the me-m-mess.”

 

“No sex? Boring,” Richie scoffed.

 

“Alright, then,” Bev said, “since you’ve been talking so much, why don’t you go first?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Bev smirked. “Okay, fine.”

 

“Fine,” Richie agreed.

 

“ _Fine.”_

 

“Fine!”

 

“Fine-“

 

“Oh my god,” Stan said, “Beverly fucking Marsh.”

 

“He started it-”

 

“What the fuck-” Richie chimed in, and Stan had given them both a sharp look that shut them up. Beverly took out the bottle and placed it in the middle- it was bluish greenish colored with a metal cap and Eddie didn’t really want to know what its contents had been.

 

“Let’s see who’ll be spending sexy times with Trashmouth,” Mike snorted.

 

“You _wish_ it was you,” Richie said.

 

“As if.”

 

“What? You think we don’t see you fapping off every night to pictures of my beautiful face?”

 

“What the fuck, man?”

 

“Don’t be embarrassed, you’re not the only one. Right, Ben?”

 

“That’s so gross,” Ben mumbled.

 

Beverly flicked the bottle around, and it began to spin on its side. The panic didn’t start to creep in until the bottle began to slow- the seconds began to pass like what felt like years, and Eddie found himself digging his nails into his thighs with a strange nervousness that he couldn’t quite pin the source of.

 

It passed over them like a ghost. Beverly. Ben. Mike. Bill. Stan. Eddie. Beverly. Ben. Mike. Bill.

 

Stan.

 

A strange feeling flooded Eddie that he couldn’t place- relief? Disappointment…? It didn’t feel good or bad. Eddie stared at Stan’s expression- his face pulled into a tight grimace, probably at the mere thought of being alone in a closet with Richie for seven whole minutes. It wouldn’t be that bad, Eddie thought distantly, and instantly smacked himself upside the head for it. Of course it would be. Richie was fucking obnoxious.

 

But then the bottle began to pick up motion again. It stirred a little, almost like it was whirring back to life, and then almost mechanically-

 

It spun straight to Eddie, the metal cap completely facing him.

 

“Tough luck, Eddie!” Beverly chirped up. Eddie gaped, swinging his head around to look at her- she was a little _too_ enthusiastic about this- she smacked his arm and shoved him towards Richie. “Alright, you two, get in there!”

 

“What?!” Eddie had exclaimed. “How the fuck- Richie, did you see that shit, that’s not fucking possible-!”

 

A closet door shut in front of the two of them for the second time tonight. It’s two times too many.

 

And this is where the torture begins.

 

Eddie can’t fucking believe he’s in this situation _again_ \- at least Bill’s closet is much larger than the school one, gives him room to breathe, doesn’t smell like dirty mop water.

 

“So, whatcha thinkin’, Eds?” Richie says conversationally. “You wanna bang it out, or-”

 

“Shut up,” Eddie says sharply. “Seriously, Richie, let’s just… let’s just be quiet, and sit here for seven minutes, and then we can _leave._ Okay?”

 

Richie’s mouth snaps shut and he falls silent. Eddie sighs shakily and glances at his feet. He checks his watch. It hasn’t even been a minute.

 

He concentrates on taking deep, steady breaths. Richie is breathing quietly beside him too, but he’s farther away than that other time, and Eddie feels out of place not being right by his side.

 

Finally, Richie speaks in a low voice: “You know, they’re having the time of their lives right now.”

 

Eddie blinks, looking at Richie. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

 

Richie’s voice falls to a whisper. “Listen to them, Eds. They’re dead quiet. They’re _listening_ to us- they’re just waiting so they can make fun of us, no matter what. It’s a trap, see? If we don’t do anything, we’re prudes- if we do something, we’re fags.”

 

“Kind of like The Breakfast Club,” Eddie says slowly.

 

“Exactly.”

 

Eddie swallows thickly. He stares at Richie’s lips, then glances at Richie’s eyes, barely meeting them. “So, what is it, then?” he asks hoarsely. “Prudes or fags?”

 

“They just want a good laugh, right?”

 

“Right…?” Eddie frowns. “So?”

 

“ _So_ ,” Richie says, “They want a show. I say we give them one.”

 

Richie closes in on him. Eddie’s breath hitches in his throat as Richie turns, closing off the roominess that had been so comforting to Eddie while it lasted.

 

Eddie licks his lips nervously. This is- this is wrong. It’s vulgar. Boys aren’t supposed to kiss boys. His mother would be having a heart attack if she saw him now- their whole school would call them fags for the rest of their lives- Eddie’s not gay, Richie’s not gay, they are _not gay._ He’s becoming just another one of Richie Tozier’s sick games.

 

He takes another look at Richie’s mouth and loses himself, finding himself unable to refuse, to push Richie away.

 

Quiet beeping fills the thick, silent air.

 

Richie’s eyes dart downwards to the curve of Eddie’s wrist, to the source of the beeping, before he looks back up and meets Eddie’s eyes again.

 

A small smile creeps onto Richie’s face. “Are you scared, Eds?”

 

His voice has returned to his usual obnoxious volume. Eddie supposes he’s not trying to keep anything quiet anymore, and this is all part of his plan. He _wants_ the others to hear them.

 

Eddie swallows hard. His gaze drops to Richie’s perfectly curled lips. “I don’t know,” he admits.

 

“What’s there to be afraid of?” Richie’s moving closer. His face is so close now that Eddie can feel his breath on his face. He’s going practically cross-eyed looking at him. “Tell me, Eds. Are you afraid of _me?”_

 

Eddie gives a shrug, trying and failing to look nonchalant. Too close, he thinks, this is too close, but for some reason he can’t find it in him to pull away. “I don’t know,” he says again. He decides to play along with the gag, and adds, “Should I be?”

 

Richie grins his devilish, crooked smile. “Yes,” he says finally, decidedly. “You should be very, very afraid.”

 

“It’s my first time kissing anyone,” Eddie says defensively. He juts his chin out. “I have reason to be.”

 

“Wanna know a secret?” Eddie doesn’t say yes or even nod, but Richie continues anyway- “It’s my first time too.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“First time with somebody I actually like.”

 

Richie’s staring at his lips now. Eddie wants to scream, wants to clock Richie and get out of this fucking closet, he wants to go home and take his meds and vanish away to his room where he can lock all his windows and close all his doors. This is so wrong, it’s wrong, and Eddie needs to get away from Richie before it gets even worse.

 

“You don’t mean that,” Eddie manages breathlessly. “You don’t like me, Richie.”

 

“Try me.” He’s not intimidating- he’s nowhere near it, really, with his wide eyes through his gigantic glasses, freckles sprinkled across his face like the fucking stars- but that doesn’t make Eddie feel any calmer than he does now.

 

Eddie presses his lips together. “Are you scared too, then?” he asks, finally.

 

“Absolutely fucking terrified,” Richie tells him.

 

Richie leans forward. His smooth fingers find Eddie’s face- his touch is always warm and makes Eddie feel awake- and he closes the remaining space between them.

 

Richie tastes like cola and vanilla ice cream, Eddie thinks, and it’s fucking fantastic.

 

It’s so wrong. _Boys aren’t supposed to kiss other boys_. This, this is taboo, they could get in serious trouble for this- they could never hear the end of this from the Losers- this is suicide, this is the sin of all sins.

 

So then why does it feel so _right?_

 

His wristlet is beeping frantically now. He’s never heard it going so fast or so loud before.

 

Richie smiles into Eddie’s lips, drawing away. Eddie finds himself instantly wishing he’d come back. “You really are gonna have a fucking aneurysm at that rate,” he tells him, but all Eddie’s looking at are Richie’s lips, soft and pink.

 

“Cut the bullshit,” Eddie whispers fiercely at him. “Don’t tell me that was just for show.”

 

“What do _you_ think that was, then, Eds?”

 

“I’m thinking you really do like me.”

 

“I’m thinking the same thing.”

 

The feeling of Richie’s lips against his hasn’t left him yet.

 

“I’m thinking I might love you, too,” Eddie hears himself say.

 

“I’m thinking you _have_ loved me for a long time now.”

 

“I’m thinking we should do that again.”

 

“I’m thinking you should turn the fucking heart monitor off first. It’s kind of dulling the mood.”

 

“Beep beep, Richie.” Eddie turns off his bracelet all too hastily and leans into Richie again, and this time, it’s not just for show.

 

This is considerably the best night of Eddie Kaspbrak’s pathetic thirteen-year-old life.

 

~

 

“They’re doing it!” Beverly mouths wildly at the rest of them. She peels herself away from the closet and joins the other Losers (save for Bill, who escaped to the bathroom) in jumping up and down victoriously. “They really did it, mother _fucker!”_

 

“Ten bucks!” Mike says in a whisper-shout to Ben, who grudgingly takes the money out of his pocket and doles it out to the taller boy.

 

“I still don’t get it,” Stan says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I thought I was _fucked,_ and I’d have to spend seven minutes in _hell_ with Trashmouth, but that bottle defied fucking physics.”

 

Bev snorts. “No, _I_ defied fucking physics.” She holds up the bottle for them to see- “Metal cap, losers.”

 

“So?” Ben asks.

 

“ _So,_ it’s magnetic.” A devilish grin creeps onto Bev’s face. “And I may or may not have slipped a magnet into Eddie’s pocket…”

 

“Son of a _bitch_!” Mike marvels, and Bev shrugs slyly.

 

“You’re welcome,” she tells Stan.

 

“That’s pretty genius,” Stan admits with a stifled laugh. And then he straightens, his expression growing suddenly serious. “Do you think you could do the same with me and Bill…?”

**Author's Note:**

> i love these kids with all my heart, dude. i love beverly a lot ok?  
> alrightt how’d u like it? let me know ! i love feedback!! comments literally make my day, and i’m not really expecting much since this was mostly just a self-indulgent drabble lmao. but anyway yea!! i hoped u liked it! kudos, comments, and bookmarks all make me blush. <3333  
> have nice days everybody!   
> my tumblr is too-many-bees. you can message me there if u just wanna talk, and even drop in requests/prompts! alright see ya later!!!


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